


Fernweh

by schadenfreude (solitariusvirtus)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, False Identity, Middle Ages, Multi, Politics, Robb Lives, Scars, Scheming, Testing - Freeform, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10980228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/schadenfreude
Summary: The King in the North accepts a truce with young King Tommen Baratheon. Robb Stark is to wed Princess Myrcella and peace shall reign.Rosamund is a Lannister of Lannisport, not a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Her hair is the same color as mine, but straight instead of curly. Rosamund doesn’t truly favor me, but when she dresses up in my clothes people who don’t know us think she’s me. We traded places on the Seaswift, on the way to Braavos. Septa Eglantine put brown dye in my hair. She said we were doing it as a game, but it was meant to keep me safe in case the ship was taken by my uncle Stannis.





	Fernweh

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [come out, come out to the sea, my love (find me, in the shallows)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976623) by [solitariusvirtus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus). 



 

 

 

 

 

 

The door opened with a low creaking noise, startling Rosamund. She raised her head from its position of the pillow, glaring at whoever dared to intrude upon her rest. Lately there was very little she could do but sleep the hours away, wondering if it would be one day or the other when her presence was no longer required and she was consigned to whatever place incompetent companions were taken to. Sweet she might be called, but dim she was not.

Tyrion Lannister had been clear in his instructions, she was to serve as a double. Whether she made a friend of the man’s niece was of less import. Without a drop of it truly. She was there just in case someone took it into their head that a royal princess was touchable. And who better to take the place as sacrifice than kin.

Her eyes finally landed upon the thick shadowed figure. For a moment her mind deceived her, whispering of their poor septa. But that was not she any more than Rosamund was Myrcella. The woman entered nevertheless. By garb she was of gentle stock. She approached Rosamund’s bedside and placed a hand upon her shoulder, despite that she lied before her with eyes wide open. “You are awake. Good. The Prince wishes to speak to you.”

Not with her, but to her. Rosamund felt her heart shrivel within her. It would not do. She had to go, no matter her personal inclination. Thus roused, she saw little choice in debating the order. Given the lack of conversation she had had within the recent past, it gave her some comfort to go along with the anxiety. Whatever Myrcella had been convinced of, it seemed to require leaving Rosamund behind, which in turn could only lead to heartache and trouble down the road.

The woman helped her out of bed. Her touch was gentle, her bearing proud. She had not been wrong in identifying her as one of the noble class. Rosamund found herself following the unknown woman down the hallway. The Prince of Dorne rarely left his chambers on account of the pesky defect of health holding him chair-bound. In effects, others were to wait upon him not only for his rank, but for his weakness as well. She had expected more of a man with a reputation such as his, but the Rosamund suspected she had indeed seen much too little of him to form an opinion one way or the other. 

Indeed, Doran Martell had had himself positioned upon a tiled balcony, drinking leisurely from a cup. “Lady Rosamund, we must speak, you and I.” She failed to see why they must. It had been her hope ‘twas some strange Dornish custom, but it seemed a remote possibility with those wide, hard eyes set upon her. “Some time past your lady has left you behind. Know you why?”

“To the best of my knowledge, it had to do with her brother. That was all Her Grace imparted upon me.” Some years her junior, Myrcella was a sweet girl, willing to think the best of any one person just as long as they indulged her every now and again, but she feared that had landed her in the grasp of the Prince’s heir. Still, she was not about to admit to her suspicions. “Is aught amiss?”

“I will not lie to you, the situation is dire indeed.” Frankness from a Dornishman? She nodded her head, pushing the bitterness to the back of her mind. She was ruined. Whether she returned her mistress with some form of wound upon her or if she brought back naught of the Princess, it was all the same. The only change was that they would stop curling her hair. She would have no need of curls on the chopping block.

Rosamund ignored the burning desire to rise a hand to her throat and feel the skin warm and alive beneath her fingertips. “Apologies, my Prince, but that is precious little. What is this dire indeed you speak of?”

“The specifics elude me,” the man admitted upon a sigh, “but I am persuaded Her Grace was met with an unkind fate as my men reached her. There was little we could do, though we did our best. She is wounded, my lady, one might claim gravely so. The maesters are even now applying themselves to the task of saving her life. But I cannot have it known what her state is.”

“You wish me to continue pretending to be Her Grace?” He nodded. Rosamund failed to see how such short a reprieve would aid. Her kin would soon learn of the debacle if they hadn’t already and there would be retribution. Her breath hitched as the magnitude of the situation finally hit her. “It would never work. You are putting yourselves at risk. Best to claim it an accident.”

“Unfortunately that will not be possible.” And like that she was an accomplice in the covering of what she did not doubt was in truth a heinous act. Whatever had possessed Myrcella to go through with it he would never know. The girl had declined to confide in her, or their septa. She was, in other words, under the influence of Princess Arianne. Rosamund might have warned that such a fate would come of associating with the likes of that woman. Had she but known.

Alas, too little, too late and she had better concentrate on fabricating some excuse which would keep her alive. If anything, until she was in her own home, surrounded by her brothers and sisters. By her mother and father, to hear them one last time, to know from them that she mattered. At least in their eyes, even if the loftier Lannisters of Casterly Rock thought they could treat all and sundry as their servants. Dismissed from the Prince’s presence she was taken by the very same woman back to the bedchamber. Only this time, she was no longer alone.

On the bed, amid the linens, the Princess laboured under the effects of her wounds. Rosamund gasped. She had imagined something less conspicuous. But it seemed the Dornish were as dramatic as they were mad. Half of her mistress’ face was beyond ruined. In fact, the sight of the flesh feeling away in thick strips, revealing bone, turned her stomach and just about left her breathless. Yet she had more than enough breath in her to fall into a violent couching fit.

The maester cleaning Myrcella’s gaping wound did not pause in his task, but the acolyte moved to help her up. He led her to an empty chamber pot, helping her into a kneeling position without having her fall over. Rosamund emptied the contents of her stomach into the container, not believing how painfully her throat burned. She breathed in through her nose as her stomach wrenched one last time, then squeezed as though trying to fold upon itself.

And then it all stopped.

Pressure lifted from her back and shoulders and she could breathe once more. Lethargically, she moved away from the sight of her own weakness. Tremblingly turning towards Myrcella, she forced her eyes upon the gruesome vision. There was nothing for it. The maester was daubing some sort of thick concoction of foul lineage upon the oozing flesh. The strong stench reached her. But Rosamund was beyond empty by that point. She felt her stomach clench but naught came up her throat.

“Let me.” She should have kept her peace. The man lifted his head to look at her, his acolyte following suit. “I am Her Grace’s closest companion. ‘Tis only fitting that she should benefit from my care.” Too late to turn back once she had spoken. “Give that to me.”

The smooth underside of the bowl felt heavy in her hand. Rosamund sniffed, trying to identify the offending scent. It smelled almost vinegary, but somehow stronger. It burned a path through her nostrils. Even in the low candlight she could still make out the colour, amber. Swirling the polutice she noted flecks within. It was thick. Her exploration was cut short as instructions came from the maester.

“Apply this upon her skin every few hours. Likely as not you will need to sit up with her, my lady. I shall leave the acolyte–“

“That will not be necessary,” she interrupted, waving the suggestion away. “If you must, have him come whenever I am to apply the poultice.” A shallow attempt was made to change her mind. She did not, however, change it.

As she was relentless in her defiance, they were left with no other choice but to give in and leave her to whatever it was that she wished to do. As it turned out, what Rosamund wanted to do was sit in a stiff, uncomfortable chair beside the ailing Princess and stare some more at the gaping flesh. The ear was entirely gone but for a stray piece which might have been part of the lobe. It looked too fleshy to be anything else. While she contemplated that dangling shred, her fingers dipped in the thick paste. The scent even stronger due to close proximity, it left her slightly more comfortable than she had been before.

“What are we to do, Cella? Your grandfather should not be pleased at all when he finds out of this folly.” Of course that in no way impeded the proposed alliance which had so ostensibly seen Myrcella settled in Dorne. After all, the girl’s ruined face had come about as a result of Dornish meddling and likely as not some grand stupidity on Ser Oakheart’s part.

What though? What could have turned the man’s head so that he would put the one he was sworn to protect in danger’s path? To that Rosamund could only shrug inwardly and hope that whoever came after the man had more sense to him. Poor Ser Arys. He was by no means a bad man. A pity he was an unthinking one.  Alas, the knights of old no longer shaded this earth and their like seemed to have all but vanished.

Waiting the passing of hours in deathly silence did little to improve her mood. The sight of Myrcella, lying wan upon the bed sank the same mood down even further. All in all, she could safely say that her little adventure far from home was turning out to be a most ill-advised venture. Had she but the power to turn back the hand of time, she would make it so that no one ever approached her father. Landless knight though he was, the man was not without heart and he would doubtlessly be swayed by her tears and pleading. It always worked for mother.

The stream of thoughts slowly slowed. It would be foolish to burn through all of them within the hour. To occupy herself, Rosamund drew upon her knowledge of caring for the ailing, Grandmother could oft be found abed, screeching to her good-daughter and grandchildren about her various needs. No one was exempt from seeing to her. Rosamund imagined caring for Myrcella would not be much different except that the Princess was currently senseless and she would have to find another way of feeding her water and food as opposed to having them spooned in her mouth. Might be something like a broth-soaked cloth.

She could ask the acolyte to be sure whether that was as good an idea as it seemed to her. But broth was so very weak. Would that give her enough sustenance? Tonics could have a potentially beneficial effect. Rosamund touched the heel of her palm to the girl’s forehead. She was warm, a fine sheen of sweat covering her skin. But it did not seem to her that fever was so very high. Had she more knowledge upon these matters she might have done aught to ease her mistress’ discomfort. “It will turn out well, Cella, you’ll see. You just need to hold on for a while longer.”     

When finally came the acolyte with the reminder that she was to apply the ointment Myrcella. The man watched her, not intervening other than to offer some instructions upon how she was to go about it. For that her gratitude expanded towards him. However much was left of it, given the circumstances.

“She’s trembling,” Rosamund noted, tugging the covers up to Myrcella’s chin.

“’Tis her struggle,” the man answered, the vagueness of it leaving much to be desired. Nevertheless, she accepted the explanation with the hope that sufficient struggle would lead to victory. Better at least for Myrcella to live. Might be even go back to her kin with word of what she had lived through, what it was that had pushed for such a move on her part.

The shuddering did not stop even as Rosamund heaped another cover upon the slumbering girl. The acolyte had no solution for it either but to recommend milk of the poppy. “The effects wear off after a certain period,” he let her know upon the benefits of the drink. “A mouthful should aid her rest.”

Given Myrcella would not be able to vouch for such it made for a situation in which decision burdened her shoulders once more. Rosamund allowed the ingestion of milk of the poppy with a heavy heart. She recalled, as she lifted Myrcella’s head ever so gently, that one of her younger sister had complained, more than once, at the fact that some Lannisters were great while others were little more than specks of dust in a vast universe, as it were. Their mother, to that particular line of thinking, had promptly placed the poor girl in charge of the household for the day. That had been a disaster.

By the end of it, her sister had taken to insisting she was very much grateful for being a speck of dust for the time being, doing her very best to stay out of mother’s way.

Rosamund, having always been more in line with mother as far as desire for grandness went, found in that yet another reason to court simplicity. The interruption to her plans had been as rousing an experience as she ever wanted to have. She brushed back a curling strand absently, thinking that with some good fortune she would resist the urge to run screaming for the hills. Not that she had much of a choice in that sense.

The guards which had been posted at the door left Rosamund in little doubt as to whether she could even conceive of fleeing. One way or another, she was trapped in an impossible situation. “There now,” she spoke to the younger girl. “It will make tyou feel better.” The acolyte managed to push some of the liquid in the Princess’ mouth with the use of a spoon. Myrcella was weakly biting down upon the metal. “When is she expected to wake?”

By the look on the man’s face that was the wrong question to ask. Rosamund helped her charge into a comfortable position. The answer was impossible to miss. “That is entirely dependent upon whether she manages to fight off the effects of, well, infection.  The conditions afforded to Her Grace were far from ideal.”

And in so little time her wounds had succumbed to infection. “Should her fever not be higher in that case?” An uncle of hers had managed to get his leg in a bad way. That wound soon soured into enough of a reason to call for the maester. Though the leg had been amputated the man still died. She could still recall that he had laboured under high fever for days on end until half the household wished he were dead if only to save him the suffering and them their eardrums. Myrcella acted quite unlike her uncle. Granted, her uncle had had moments of lucidity.

“Some matters remain a mystery even for the well-trained of us who have seen the worst of the worst.” That was not the heartening response she had been looking for, but Rosamund suspected she would have felt a lot more let down were she plied with pretty lies and left to face the truth when the bell tolled. “Even thus, not all is lost, my lady. Her Grace is young, and prior to this incident in good health. Once can certainly hope she has strength enough stores away.”

It would be rude to point out that he was feeding her Essosi coin, so Rosamund swallowed the complaints, knowing he was merely trying to alleviate some of the pressure of knowledge. One had to excuse such instances even if in an ornery manner. As it happened, her manner was merely exhausted as opposed to mean-spirited. “I was wondering if I might have some ink and parchment.” His reaction was a soft promise of looking into the matter, which more or less meant that she would have to watch her words carefully, if she was allowed to write at all. Or might be she could write what she willed and someone else would simply straighten the narrative. That entirely took some of the effort away.

Such thoughts aside, she was once more left with the ailing Princess, allowed to sit by her side and contemplate her fate in relative silence, wondering when it was that she would be once again faced with the reality of her situation. Silence and its masking effect gave room for gathering one’s wits, but it could be as frightening as the edge of a well-sharpened blade. Rosamund feared she would not regain any of her bearing in truth until she was certain of her fate.

“I will write to your uncle. It is my hope he, or your grandfather, or even your brother might see us out of this situation. I am trying, Cella. I truly am.” Myrcella offered no reply. There was not even as much as a twitch to let her know she had been heard. “This is horrible.” And she did not have the worst of it yet. The thought gave her pause. Was it truly that she had not seen the worst of the situation? She dearly hoped that was not the case.

She leaned back in her chair. The matter would not bear much more contemplation.              

       

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
